Crosses
by Malhearst
Summary: A series of one-shots for Sable Supernova's Months of the Year Competition. Fremione at a Weasley Christmas. Tom Riddle being a possessive (and dangerous) twat. Regulus giving his family a last shot of happiness. McGonagall and loss. Bellatrix and her toy. Jily in a modern college AU.
1. January 1979

January, 1979

"Five of Cups─" Regulus sighed to himself wistfully, "─no kidding."

The painted card showed two people, each on their own precipice, a broken bond between them and their backs turned on each other. Something about the image reminded him of his brother and it made him angry. His chest tied itself in knots and he snapped a hurried breath of air before rising from his seat on the floor.

Before him, the door opened.

"Kreacher was wondering if Mr. Black would like to know that Mistress has left the house."

Regulus, aware that there was no dust on his cloak and running his hand down it all the same, looked at the house elf evenly. The rags on his old, spindly body seemed to accentuate the mark of death that hung on him─he was no longer a creature of this world, having seen his own death and unavoidably escaped it.

Briefly, Regulus wondered what it might be like to know that your life was in the hands of others and that it was running like sand through their fingers.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Regulus said kindly and nodded his head once to indicate that his servant might be excused.

 _Servant._ The word ran cold down his spine, reminding him of his own words; he, too, had seen his own death and was now welcoming it in the hands of himself.

There had always been a special kinship between Kreacher and himself; a brother where there no longer was one.

The door closed with a withering croak; like everything else in this house, it was falling apart and giving in to old age. Grimmauld Place had been built in splendour only to give way for mortality. Though dust didn't line its halls yet, it would soon be without sons, and Regulus was awfully aware that it was his fault.

"Have any letters arrived, Kreacher?" Regulus demanded, donning his winter cloak, dark green and silver, as if the family was only something in connection to their house. Whether it was Slytherin or Grimmauld Place, it seemed that the Blacks had always been defined by four walls. Breaking them was sacrilege, family a religion, but Regulus refused to feel sorry for anyone who had chosen their own path.

( _He_ left _me_.)

(And yet, I still run to him.)

Outside, the ground was covered in snow. Big, fat snowflakes fell like feathers, floating down gently. Something serene filled Regulus at the sight, looking down to watch the marks of his footsteps in the snow, delighted at the crunching sound made by his weight against the thick, white carpet. A part of him felt immediately attracted to this childish idea that he could stick out his tongue and let the flakes melt on it, the way they had done in unison when he was younger, brothers in spirit and mind. Mother in the background, disapproving of their boyish behaviours, both of them burning with shame at her flaming words, both of them smiling with mischief when locking eyes a second later. Father in front, always two steps ahead and too elevated for childcare.

A second later, the memory─constructed or otherwise, it was a wisp of a distant past in any case, one he would now never get to see again─filled him with inanity.

Mother would worry, her hand white from the strain of her wringing, skin already thinning, veins showing. They never had allowed Sirius the one thing he had actually asked for─humanity─as if giving their eldest son what he wanted would be weakness, and for a second, Regulus's own heart softened with forgiveness of his brother.

But Mother would sit beside the dressing table, perfuming her hands and neck─Father could smell weakness, she would sometimes indulge Regulus when he had to man up, her words monotone, her eyes conspiratorial─her pale skin a soft contrast to the black and greens of her bedroom. She would put her pearls down softly in the lamplight as if control over her immediate environment gave her control over those far away, as if a single loud noise might be the push that her only son needed to tip in his absence.

She couldn't know he had already tipped, that the note she would never read had already been written and that he had made a greater rebellion than Sirius. His brother had made his choices in spite; he could still be made to see the light, he would have a life to object to when Regulus was gone, but Regulus already loved her and he had chosen ideals as his final breath.

The thoughts almost overpowered him, and he apparated in a whirl of tears and a taste of bile in his mouth.

Upon arrival, he took a few paces towards the gate, knowing Sirius still knew him well enough that he would think Regulus too much of a coward to enter. Rigid with cold, with apprehension, and with anxiety, Regulus plunged his hands deep into his pockets and looked unmovingly towards the Shrieking Shack.

It didn't take long before three easy footsteps announced his brother's arrival.

Sirius, though Regulus only dared look out the corner of his eye, walked over, turned on his heel and leaned heavily against the iron gate, which in turn rattled in the wheezing wind. Regulus shuddered invisibly, waiting silently while Sirius coolly lit a cigarette with a Muggle lighter.

Regulus rolled his eyes.

"Brother," Sirius greeted spitefully.

"Sirius," Regulus returned acridly, his blood already boiling.

"Got your note," Sirius said, making a show of pulling it out, letting it dance a few steps on the wind and then incinerating it, " _I know about the wolf._ How dramatic."

Though he was maintaining a certain coldness of tone, annoyance laced his voice and Regulus smiled momentarily, dismissively.

"Don't worry, _Brother,_ " Regulus heard himself say, regretting the track the conversation so easily fell into, wanting to redeem himself, to redeem them all, one last time, "I won't contact you again."

For the first time since his brother had showed, Regulus dared look to his side. Sirius had glanced at him in an insecure moment but was now setting his eyes upon the Hogsmeade horizon with steely determination. His hair had grown longer─what had never been allowed in their home; by contrast, Regulus's hair was smooth and shining with hair product, perfection instilled from the first waking hour─his attitude had grown ruthless. There was a certain haunted note in his voice, a small crack that Regulus knew too well to doubt himself when he decided it had never been there before.

The wind blew harder and his hat almost took off.

Sirius wasn't wearing one.

"Then what do you want, brother mine?" Sirius asked again, the same pretense he'd kept up since finding friends to be 'real' around. It was a certain pureblood tone, affectionate words and distanced voice.

Regulus hated it.

"I want you to read something for me."

"Why, haven't our parents given you a proper education?"

Between closed teeth, Regulus hissed, "Just─listen to me."

This made Sirius perk up, although he didn't change his attitude; his back still against the gate that Regulus was staring away from, his eyes still fixed somewhere without connection to what his brother was looking at. Only, now he glanced from time to time at Regulus, somehow visibly shaken without noticeably changed at all.

Regulus was satisfied.

"Here," he said, shoving a sealed envelope in Sirius's hands, "In a couple of months, read this."

"Why in a couple of months?"

"I can't say," Regulus said hurriedly, tired, "Just promise me."

Sirius threw him a suspicious look.

"Please?" Regulus asked harshly. He hated pleading, because it meant he needed something from someone who was opposed to paying him even the most civil of favours.

"Fine." Sirius shrugged and Regulus took it as concession enough to start walking back to Hogsmeade. He needed to cool off, but it went quicker than he expected; somehow, knowing that all that needed to be said between them, all the hurt, all the forgiveness, all the apologies, the pleas to come home, the humility to ask forgiveness for his parents, for joining the wrong cause, for returning Sirius's teenage-spite with more of his own, would be read by his brother once he was gone, would be understood in the light of his sacrifice, would help calm his father and heal the wound of his mother as Sirius returned home with balm in his hands, that maybe that letter would be able to bring his twisted, broken family back together made Regulus forgive Sirius without hearing him ask for it.

* * *

A couple of years later, Regulus's disappearance unannounced, the fight against the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters intensifying, Sirius further estranged from a family he only remembered by their allegiance, the letter was picked up amongst others of Sirius's belongings and destroyed as Sirius was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban.


	2. Nine Months of Winter

November, 1939

Isobel McGonagall was a beautiful woman. Minerva was too young to understand, but people often tremble in terror before beauty; there's something so final about it and man has always craved what could never be possessed.

(And man has always hated needs not satisfied.)

In this feature as in many others, Minerva looked to her mother and gasped desperately for kinship. The red hair, the free spirit, the open disposition, all testament to her mother's happiness─and this was what Minerva saw, through the sadness, through the oppression she laid on herself, through the tears that ran down her cheeks.

Minerva saw happiness.

"My child," her mother enunciated in a broken rhythm, "I am so sorry that you shall be bound by my bonds."

A hand reached out to Minerva, teacup eyes wide in wonder at something so strange as an adult crying. Last time Minerva had cried, she had fallen from a tree─daydreaming underneath it one minute, balancing on one of its branches the next─but her mother hadn't just fallen down.

The girl peered strangely, cocking her head to one side while her mother stroked her long, dark hair in one gentle motion with soft whispers on her lips.

"Your father is such a wonderful man, isn't he? You love your father very much?"

Minerva recognised this as a peremptory question, an adult, preemptive strategy against later disagreement, but she also recognised the truth in her mother's voice and even though Minerva didn't understand love as more than a given─didn't probe for the depth of feelings she couldn't fully grasp─she nodded, because what else was there to do?

"But you also know how worried he gets when you suddenly bounce off of branches?"

"But─!" Minerva almost protested, but she was interrupted immediately by her mother's soft, breathy voice shushing her.

"I know, I know, my love," she cooed, tears still streaming, "And I will tell you why─"

Eyes widening with curiosity, Minerva leaned forward.

"─and I will teach you how to control it." Minerva's breathing came almost in staccato now. "But you must promise me one thing."

Only just turned four, Minerva already knew she could not agree to something she didn't know what was. Instead, she held her breath to convey the urgency of her curiosity to her mother and to imitate her mother's own signs of excitement.

"You mustn't mention it to your father."

* * *

November, 1943

The study was a mess. Despite her father's tidy mind, Minerva McGonagall recognised the frantic stacks of papers and books of someone rationally obsessed with bettering themselves.

She loved the smell of the study. Perhaps a study was not the most optimal priority. Two children, a boy and a girl nonetheless, and a third on the way were to share one room on the small minister's salary, but Minerva didn't mind; the study was her real comfort zone.

Old books of dust and sallow paper, cracked parchment and inkwells galore. Wooden quills lay scattered in the window sills, on the bookcases and shelves, used as bookmarks and placed haphazardly in an old milk jar. The sun was streaming in through the windows, optimistically trying to warm the cold, stone-walled room, and it gave a warmish tint to the bone-cold. Her father, blanket around his waist, was adjusting his glasses like so often, trying to read a scroll of some sort.

"Don't lurk in the doorway, Minerva," he said, sounding parched and old.

Minerva, pushing off with her shoulder from the doorframe, walked over, put a glass of water on the table and a blanket around his shoulders.

"What are you reading, Father?"

"Minerva, you are the wittiest girl in the entire village."

Minerva, not exactly knowing what to do with that comment, stayed quiet by his side.

"How do I know you will not tear my faith to shreds?"

This time he turned to look at her, pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose slightly to give her an inquiring look. The smile playing on his lips, however, made Minerva smile in return.

"Now," her father said, clearing his throat once and straightening the scroll with both hands, holding it in front of his face as if he had a hard time reading it any other way, "This scroll in particular is a little tricky. It tells the story of a Greek goddess named Athena─"

Minerva almost protested, shocked that her father was occupied with something else than biblical scripture.

"─and her brother, Ares."

"Malcolm isn't _that_ much of a warrior," Minerva said mockingly.

"I have several responses to this," her father said and she almost rolled her eyes as he readjusted in his seat, knowing he could not choose between them and would instead test them all against her own witticisms.

"First and foremost, neither are you."

Minerva made ready to argue, but soon found the air leaving her like a punctuated balloon.

She conceded his point, an eight-year-old playing make-believe at a grown-up's conversation.

Her father had always humoured her.

"Secondly, no, he's not, he's more of a _worrier_ ," he said with a dramatic pause and wiggling eyebrows. The whole set-up was so ridiculous that Minerva could nothing but laugh. Robert McGonagall seemed satisfied.

"And lastly, you're right. I suppose your mother had no more ancestors named for Greek warrior gods."

His words were teasing, but his tone was tense and Minerva knew too well how much symbolism he still lay in her name; Minerva was a constant reminder that her mother had wanted their first-born for herself as a chain linking her to the life she regretted giving up for love. She was the bane of her father's existence and no matter how well her temperament matched his, she would never be a sufficient replacement for her mother's happiness.

"Father," she said in a gentle voice, "is it true that God hates witches?"

She'd promised and now she'd broken the promise.

Her father looked at her with surprise for a moment, then took off his glasses and started rubbing the dust and grease off in his clothes.

"You've read the scripture, child," he said, holding the glasses up against the sunlight to detect any last stains, a force of habit rather than need, "What do you think?"

Minerva had to think for a moment.

"The Bible says that you shall not suffer a witch to live."

"Indeed." Her father nodded solemnly and perhaps a little sadly.

"Does that mean that you suffer because mother lives?"

Minerva thought for a moment she might have broken her father's heart with her questions and almost vowed never to ask him any again when he said, "Dear, dear Minerva," and indicated that she come sit with him.

Obliging, Minerva placed her hands on his thigh and pushed off, her father emitting a sharp breath beside her.

"Do you understand love, Minerva?" he said when she finally adjusted, his hand on her shoulder.

Shaking her head a little, Minerva looked up.

"Neither do I," he admitted, "but God does."

She wrinkled her nose.

"Ahh─ah ah ah. You asked, now I answer." His words were admonishing, but he waggled a finger teasingly in front of her nose and Minerva smiled.

"And who does God love?"

"His children?" Minerva asked insecurely.

"You don't have to ask, child. Whenever you give an answer, you give it to the best of your ability. You're asked for an answer, the asker will have to take what he or she can get. They're the ones asking something of you, not the other way around, especially when you're learning. They're not asking you to give a precise answer, they're asking if you know the answer. By answering the best you can, you're giving them the answer they actually want. Do you understand?"

Minerva, though she would later learn this to be false, nodded her head.

"And yes, God loves all his children."

"But what if witches are not his children, then?"

"Well, then, don't you think God would want to give them as much time on Earth to repent and become his children?"

The eight-year-old thought about this for a moment.

"Then why does it say that witches shouldn't live in the Bible?"

"Because," her father leaned in conspiratorially, his voice a whisper carrying like a secret, "the Bible was written by man and man makes mistakes. You see, it wasn't written in English, it was written in Hebrew and someone translated it the wrong way."

"Well," Minerva returned with the full force of her voice, "then maybe they should have let a woman translate it."

* * *

November, 1946

"Malcolm, come back here!"

Her voice carried on the violent winds of the moors, veered out of reach and out of range, never reaching her brother. He, happily, ran on, a five-year-old with pent-up energy and a sea of heather to tumble in. Autumn winds blew catastrophically against him and he fell, but Minerva, carrying the almost three-year-old Robert Jr. on her arm, couldn't keep up.

Five metres ahead, her brother entered a forested area that Minerva knew to contain a treacherous bog; in Caithness, almost no forests grew, which made it easy to distinguish one collection of trees from another.

She gasped and ran harder.

When she entered the dark, a canopy of windblown, dying crowns of crooked trees above their heads, Robert began to cry, a deafening wail as if he knew something had happened to Malcolm.

"Malcolm!" Minerva screamed.

"Help!" came a feeble cry from not far to the west. Minerva ran.

Arriving at the outskirts of the bog, she saw his little figure struggling, being sucked down. Minerva wondered briefly if this was the work of another creature; much like angels, Minerva had never allowed for the existence of fae people, but her mother had set her straight: gnomes in the garden, Grindylows in lakes, Hinkypunks instead of Jack-o-Lanterns.

"Malcolm," she called again.

"Nerva!" An outstretched hand resurfaced. She found a long branch.

"Here!"

Minerva stretched on all fours, Robbie locked underneath her, arms and legs used for prison bars, trying to reach Malcolm, but she was too late and a moment later, his hand disappeared.

Sitting back with a sob, Minerva took up Robbie, still struggling to be free of her encampment, and hugged him tightly, looking out at the bog and occasionally calling for Malcolm.

It was, for obvious reasons, a shock when Malcolm suddenly resurfaced.

"Grab this!" she called angrily, desperately after a moment of surprise and inactivity.

Malcolm, heaving deep gulps of air, finally managed to get a hold on the branch and together they worked him back onto safe patches of land.

"How," she panted, when he was back in her arms, drenched and gasping, "did you get out?"

"I don't know," Malcolm said pathetically, close to tears, "it was like I was being pushed."

Minerva, frightened to anger, said furiously, "Not a word of this to Father, do you understand?! You too, Robbie! You mustn't tell Father! Promise!"

She made them both promise when they hesitated, then cleaned and dried their clothes with a few simple hand movements. Both boys went wide-eyed, questions spilling from their lips. Minerva atoned for her angry yells by answering them all to the best of her ability, telling them secrets that had, until now, belonged only to her and her mother. The boys were insatiable─Robbie, especially, wanted to know whether he was magic too─and Minerva was tired.

Finally, she said, "We'll talk on the way home."

That night, when both of the boys were asleep, Minerva went to the side of Malcolm's bed, kneeling and praying. Silent tears came to her eyes and she allowed herself one kiss on his forehead to keep from waking him before moving into the study. There, she found her father, and without telling him one word of what had happened, she curled up in his arms and cried loudly.

* * *

November, 1951

"Why a cat?"

Professor Dumbledore, his hair and beard greying, peered at her over half-moon glasses.

It reminded her of her father.

The office, screaming personality, curiosity, brilliance, held many mysteries to Minerva and part of her knew that Dumbledore understood. However, through the distractions, Minerva pierced him with a poignant look.

"It's practical. Cats are agile, easily blend in or escape dangerous situations," she told him quickly in a potent voice.

Across from her, her Transfiguration professor smiled.

"I won't pretend I don't believe that you could do it, Minerva," Dumbledore returned mildly, rising from his chair and walking to one of the instruments.

Silently, Minerva awaited his _but_.

His back still turned on her, she heard him repeat his question.

"Why a cat?"

"I've done my research, Professor."

From her vantage point, she saw his skin give way as a smile pushed his wrinkles into visibility.

"You honour me, Minerva."

She looked steadily at him, though surprise registered for a short moment. Her hands, in imitation of her father, started engaging themselves in cleaning imaginary dirt from under her nails, a horrible but familiar sound every time one nail dragged out from underneath another.

"You excel at all your subjects here at Hogwarts, of course. You're a Prefect and one of our few hatstalls," he turned around to wink, a shocking and rushed gesture that left Minerva baffled and questioning what she had witnessed, "And yet you choose the symbol of transformation."

"Transfiguration is my favourite subject, Professor," she said, trying to sound neutral, a sixteen-year-old playing at being an adult.

For a second, she thought she had seen Professor Dumbledore blush.

Sitting down again, he braided his fingers in front of himself, and lit a few candles with a wave of his hand. Minerva looked around and said nothing.

"Minerva, one last time," he said, patiently, paternally even, "I have to ask."

He looked up with that piercing stare of his.

"Why a cat?"

So he had pretended to believe in her explanations so far. It disappointed Minerva slightly; she would have liked to be able to flatter Professor Dumbledore.

"Because, Professor," Minerva returned with equal patience, "Cats have nine lives."

Something about that sentence took him aback and she couldn't help but smile slightly, despite the gravity of what she was saying. Minerva McGonagall had never seen herself as someone with a death wish, nor did she concern herself much with eternal life, but she had seen a different kind of dying in the eyes of people she loved.

She wanted to promise herself that if ever her heart withered, she would be given a second chance. And a third. And a ninth.

The cat was her promise.

"And since joining the Quidditch team, I'm beginning to understand that might be of some help."

Dumbledore only smiled knowingly.

* * *

November, 1966

" _Charming_ move, Minerva," said Filius with a slight chuckle when her rook smashed one of his pawns by stomping on him.

Minerva, though amused, did not laugh. Instead she said, " _Charming_ game, Filius," scrunching up her nose at the violent sight.

"You love it, don't you?"

"I certainly do."

They both laughed. They had seated themselves in the Great Hall, though they both had comfortable offices. There was a rustling of papers as students struggled with the parchment, frustration in their movements as they─for the seventeenth time─decided to measure their inches and came up short. Sunlight filtered in like haze, making the dust swirls visible and there was a certain autumn afternoon laziness to the ambiance.

(Filius and Minerva usually sat at the Ravenclaw table, though they had experimented with the bench compression of the Slytherin table, the food stains at the Gryffindor table and the charms carved into the table at the Hufflepuffs. Once, Minerva had brought Pomona to witness the disarray of her house's table manners, to which Pomona had pointed at one of the quick scribbles, saying, "Oh, look, I wrote that.")

Minerva had visited Filius on more than one occasion through the years. The first time she had visited, it was because she had heard rumours on dancing cupcakes to which Filius had answered that it was an emergency measure. To this Minerva had leaned in surreptitiously and told him, _"If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."_

Too much kinship between them made Filius a puppet of his own curiosity and no sooner had he brought cupcakes to life than she had brought the suits of armour lining the halls to life.

It took very little effort to be around Filius; he had almost been a hatstall, a mirror image of herself and what she might have turned into, had she been sorted into Ravenclaw. Though she had been likened to Rowena Ravenclaw, the house's founder, in both mind and looks─Minerva had to scoff at that; how could any living person rightfully describe Ravenclaw's temperament─she had found a home in Gryffindor.

Yet she had still found time to befriend Ravenclaws.

Filius, of course, was charming and easy, without pretence or complex. He had a humorous attitude which reminded her painfully and gleefully of Dougal.

Bottomline, she was grateful for his company.

"Ah, Minerva, careful," he said when his own rook danced around her knight before picking it up and smashing it on the board like a wrestler.

Minerva jumped a little, shaking her head.

"I don't think I'll ever completely understand chess, Filius. I'm too old to learn now."

Filius, in turn, gave a short, barking laugh, summoning a plate of roasted chestnuts.

"I'm sure, in a few years, you'll be the champion of the castle."

* * *

November, 1969

The woods were retaining every last bit of colour; though the dead leaves lay desaturated and brown at their feet, the trees stubbornly held onto their colours well into November. Beside her, Pomona walked, her yellow cloak hanging a few inches above the ground, her feet happily kicking through the leaves to make as much noise as possible.

Minerva smiled.

"Over there." Minerva inclined her head towards a mighty chestnut tree at a crack in the path, an uncrowned king in its own right.

"Yes," Pomona replied happily, looking to Minerva quickly before setting off at a run.

Surprised but not deterred, Minerva picked up her cloak and immediately followed. Two brothers had taught her that not all challenges were to be won, but that some might if you accepted them. She reached the chestnut two steps ahead of Pomona, both of them panting and laughing, leaning up against the tree. Minerva, who had lost her hat a few paces from their destination, now went back and picked it up.

"So," she said, returning triumphant, waving her hat, "what's my prize?"

"How about marshmallows in chestnut cream?"

"I─don't think─"

Pomona shrugged in lieu of an actual interruption. She knew what Minerva was about to say.

"You won't know until you try."

* * *

November, 1981

 _"Are the rumours true, Albus?"_

 _"I'm afraid so, Professor. The good and the bad."_

She was thumbing the yellowed paper restlessly, insistently, as if she could wipe away those years' mark on her soul, on her heart. Lily and James were gone, brilliant both in their own way, and she had held them both in high regard.

But it wasn't _their_ letters she was holding.

Something had changed inside her.

 _"Are the rumours true, mother?"_

 _"I'm afraid so, my darling."_

Of course, she had never flattered herself that destiny existed or that God would reward her patience. Her father had believed in that realm of possibility and even he had said goodbye.

A part of her had died, though. She remembered Dougal best as a cheeky boy with sun reflected in his hair, wholly unsuited to such an old lady as she had become. Their jokes had matched and surpassed any she shared with Filius, their tenderness the kind she shared with Pomona and yet, she knew she was romanticising that summer.

She tittered to herself.

One summer.

The summer had passed, however. November had come, and like her surroundings, Minerva was shedding her feathers. It felt like dying, but Fawkes had taught her differently.

Resolutely, she stood, walking out her office and towards the Headmaster's gargoyle.

* * *

November, 1982

It was a small townhouse, red bricks and brown-tiled roof. A small, square garden announced its presence in front and a less tidy, cove-like yard stretched out in the back. In front, reaching both stories, stood a chestnut.

Inside, Elphinstone had accepted her request for a library. Her books lined not only the living room, but also the study on the second floor.

Every room had shelves with at least a couple of books and one or two contraptions. Dumbledore had always been generous when returning from various travels and Minerva had taken quite a few of them herself.

She was sitting now, her nose buried in a scroll on biblical scripture that had been postulated to contain ancient Mesopotamian Transfiguration incantations.

It was in Hebrew, she remarked.

Down the front of the living room, Elphinstone was preparing to light up the fireplace. Minerva, oblivious of his sneaked peeks at her working, yawned silently to herself, stretched and pulled out a pin from her hair. Long, black strands with one or two silver linings cascaded down her shoulders and she shook it a little, trying to free up her thoughts.

"By Merlin, you're beautiful."

His voice was warm and reassuring and Minerva snapped her head to the side to look at him, surprised but not displeased. Rising from his spot in front of the fire, he came over to her, taking her hand, inviting her to stand.

As she did, his hand reached out to cup her lined face. She leaned into it, closing her eyes.

"My darling Minerva," he said in a thick voice and she opened her eyes, seeing tears in the crinkles of his kind eyes.

Returning the gesture, she leaned into him and he took her hand, placing them in a dancing position. Without music, they swayed; sometimes he would take one big step backwards, and she would follow as he escorted her in circles, her head on his chest.

Only when they were interrupted by excited whispers from the door─ _Shhh, they're_ dancing─ _Can you still dance when you're old?_ ─did Minerva look up at her nieces and nephews standing in the door, Malcolm behind them, a grin much too juvenile for a man his age on his face.

* * *

November, 19─

A cold wind blew and they ducked into the Weasley twins' store silently, the bell announcing her movement first and him following in her shadow. Minerva was browsing approvingly, making sure that no one was watching.

Though they weren't her creation, she was still proud to call herself Head of House of the Weasley twins.

"Lemon sherbets," she said with fondness to herself, but he heard her and, looking over her shoulder, said with fatherly good humour, "Why not try something new?"

Minerva didn't need to turn around and look him in the eye, he would know she was not amused.

"I think you might be mistaking me for yourself, Albus."

"How so, Professor?" For someone as wise as her old mentor and friend, he certainly did act daft sometimes. Even though Minerva had learned to trust his wisdom and the intellectual traps he so often set for her, she still thought he was being deliberately provocative.

"Oh, Albus, don't think I suddenly love sweets, just because─"

"Headmistress?"

Minerva looked up to see George Weasley standing at the top of a couple of stairs to a plateau higher, his gaze morose and commiserating for a moment before he sent her a mirthless smile.

Silence built and expanded for a few seconds between them before he came down to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

George Weasley took a good long look at her and then, giving her shoulder a small squeeze, he said, "You see them too."


	3. 30 Days' War

**1 9 4 3**

March 2

"No, I think it's Valeria Root, it's─"

"Mudblood."

Millicent turned around immediately, her cloak billowing to a stop only an inch above her black boots. Her books lodged safely in front of her chest, she looked away from the Potions discussion she had been having with her friend, Peggy, and looked into the corridor they had just passed. A boy─well, she knew him, of course─was stooping low over a cowering girl. His smirk was unmistakable, his words almost seductively intimate, but Millicent had heard what he said and she was not about to let that pass.

"Hey!"

He didn't even look up. Instead, he leaned in over the terrified girl, whispering a few things in her ear before she ran off. Millie followed her with her eyes, although she was also acutely aware of Tom Riddle, stalking into her periphery.

"Yes─" he looked her up and down once, before coming to the more insulting conclusion, "─Raven?"

Millie didn't hold any pretences; she had no reason for him to know her name and yet she snapped a small breath of air, quick but unmistakable, at the intended insult.

"You're a Prefect, you can't use that slur."

He was one year above her, his uniform impeccable and his smile all confidence. She watched the green and silver glint off the same light that was reflected in his eyes.

Behind her, a torch flickered and almost went out.

"What makes you think you can tell me what to do?" His voice was soft and almost cooing, but glancing down, she saw a hand balled into a fist so tight that the knuckles turned white.

He took one step closer and Millie wanted, for a desperate second, to look behind her, to make sure Peggy hadn't left her, but she knew she couldn't. Tom Riddle was a dangerous animal; sweet and ingratiating around the professors, brilliant even─she had admired the tales of his accomplishments from a year below and, although she wouldn't admit it during sleepovers, like a girl just turned fifteen admired a boy of sixteen─but he was revealing himself to be true to his Slytherin heritage: willing to do what it took to get what he wanted.

He had been a hero for catching the student who had murdered all those children, even if it seemed unlikely that Rubeus Hagrid was cruel enough to keep a monster in the castle, knowing that it would cause the death of so many. _Mudblood_ , however, was not a word spoken by a hero, no matter his slick looks and charming manner.

She looked into his eyes, which sparkled maliciously, and leaned back imperceptibly.

"Any student should know it isn't right to call others─that, and─"

A sharp burst of laughter rang cold and merciless down the halls.

"You can't even say it."

"─ _and_ ," Millie interrupted him in a louder, somewhat shriller key, "there is no evidence suggesting that blood purity is anything but─"

"Say it," he suddenly said, dark amusement playing on his face.

"─but─"

"No _but_ s, just say it."

He took one step closer, towering over her and Millie took a determined step backwards, looking at him defiantly. Behind her, a suit of armour shone brightly, cutting off her backward retreat.

"It's never been proved that blood or heritage had anything to do with magic!"

Something in him changed, amusement turned into rage and everything happened quicker than expected: his hand upon her arm, thrusting her to the side and back into the cold stone background, walling her in with both hands, one on either side.

Millie didn't have to look anymore. Peggy was gone.

"Say it," he hissed and she closed her eyes and turned her head away from his.

"Say _Mudblood_."

"No."

Her voice was cracked and feeble. She could feel his warm breath on his ear, long, labourious exhales as if he was calming himself.

Suddenly, he looked up and took one step away from her. Millie relaxed her shoulders and opened her eyes, looking down the end of the corridor, where Professor Slughorn and an amassment of students had appeared, trudging their way towards them.

Tom had already disengaged himself from the conversation and was walking with determination towards them as if he was heading somewhere. As they met, Professor Slughorn greeted him like an old friend─albeit, Millie confessed, with something resembling wariness─and they exchanged a few words.

Millie saw her chance to slip away.

* * *

March 7

The library was blissfully quiet. Outside, the sun had begun to peek from its resting place behind the wintery blanket of clouds, and people had taken what they saw as a temporary opportunity to blow off steam on the lawns. A few figures, she could see, were even down by the lake. Others were flying, the Quidditch Pitch finally reclaimed from its snowy stronghold.

A lone figure appeared in the doorway and entered with long, even strides. Millie was working on a Potions essay and only glanced up, but the view made it run cold down her spine and her blood boil. His hands were in his pockets, the model of a private school prodigy: hair kempt, trousers pressed, easy manners.

He slipped out of sight behind a bookcase and Millie stretched her neck, peering towards the spot where he was expected to reappear, but nothing happened.

"Hello, Raven."

Already jittery, Millie jumped, and she hated herself for it. She turned around quickly, making immediate eye contact with him as he stood, casually leaned up against the bookcase behind her.

"Riddle."

"Ah, last names. Quaint."

For a couple of moments, they simply stared at each other.

"What do you want?" Millie finally asked. His answer was to push off and circle around to her table, asking, "What are you working on?"

"Not your busi─hey!"

He'd swiftly and elegantly swooped up the parchment, blotting it with ink as the quill rolled off.

"Girding Potion." He tittered. "Fourth year, then."

"Give it back."

At this he slammed his open palms down into the surface of the table, his words all sounding like sibilants.

"Who do you think you are that you can talk to me like that? You don't even know who you're dealing with."

"You're Tom Riddle. School hero. Prefect. Perfect model student and bigoted Slytherin. Is there something I forgot?"

"Oh, but I'm so much more than that." He was smiling now, more to bare his teeth than to calm her. "You'll see, Raven."

Then he left.

Only too late did she realise he'd taken her essay with him.

* * *

March 8

" _Open when alone_. Who on God's green earth sent you that?"

Millicent Bagnold had never found herself to have a forgiving heart. She could, at times, logically understand people's intentions, fears and dreams to the point where her brain would neutrally incorporate it into her moral understanding of them. Her brain forgave while her heart could not forget. It wasn't a question of whether she wanted to; Millicent could feel anger so hot that she downright refused to forgive, even when there was good reason to.

The fact that Peggy had left her in that corridor alone now had Millie looking at her silently; Peggy was shovelling cereal into her mouth because they were both late and twisting the package in her hands around to gauge a _return to sender_.

"Your parents?"

Millie didn't have to guess. A swirly _\- T_ adorned the lower right corner of the card.

"No wait, they're named Marianne and Arthur, right?"

Millie looked straight ahead. The Slytherins looked to be a lively flock, all malicious grins and inside jokes. He wasn't there, or, if he was, she couldn't see him. A part of her didn't want to; she wanted to pretend to ignore him, hoping that extreme measures would bore him and knew she was wrong. A different part desperately wanted to seek him out in the crowd, see if he was looking at her, wondered why he was so obsessed with her.

Ridiculous. Tom Riddle was not obsessed with her.

When finally entering the dorm alone, she quickly unwrapped the package, finding a rolled-up piece of parchment inside. Another note floated towards her, saying:

 _Good girl._

 _I charmed your essay to self-destruct at the sound of more than one voice. If you had opened it with that ghastly girl you probably call a friend, there would be nothing to show dear old Slughorn now, would there?_

Millie almost snorted triumphantly, knowing that Peggy was no longer as much of a friend as he thought.

Then it hit her that it was not a triumph at all.

 _I have made a few changes here and there, bettering you._

 _You're welcome._

Curious and furious at the same time, Millie unrolled the parchment, reading it over. Not much had been kept, but it was finished and it was good and she had been working all night at a new one after he'd stolen the original without finishing.

The Potions class was that same afternoon.

Millie decided to hand it in.

* * *

March 10

He was waiting for her outside Professor Slughorn's office.

Millie had seen him exit as she was called in to talk about the apparent plagiarism of one of Tom Riddle's fourth year essays. She had heard through the door how Professor Slughorn had asked him if he had any idea how a fourth year might have come to be in possession of one of his old essays, if he had tutored her or if she had paid him any money for it, to all of which he had, with due surprise and incredulity, answered _no_.

She hated him for it. Never in her life had she thought she would be accused of plagiarism. Millicent was a diligent student and liked by the professors; she couldn't handle the thought that the good standing she'd had might now be tainted because of his cruel vendetta.

When she exited Slughorn's office again, she didn't acknowledge him, simply looked straight ahead and walked past.

He grabbed her arm.

"Not so fast, Raven."

"That's not my name."

Riddle smiled at that.

"I have a bargain for you."

"You have nothing I want."

"How about peace?"

" _'If you talk like a fight, your opponent becomes an enemy.'_ " She was quoting a source she didn't remember.

"Is that a no?" He knew it wasn't.

"What do you want?"

"The rest of your March."

Millie drew back.

"Excuse me?"

"Here," he said, shoving a leather-bound notebook into her hands forcibly, "Take this. The instructions will appear when it's time."

"So I'm supposed to just sit with this in my hands and wait for you to write?"

Another smile was earned at that.

"You'll know when I write."

* * *

March 11

And so she did.

Millie awoke with a start. Something beside her was flapping relentlessly, an endless sound of paper against paper. Looking around, she noticed she was the only one awake─for now. The clock beside her read 00.01 and on the bedside table lay the notebook, furiously turning the pages as if a strong wind was blowing.

Quickly, she picked up the notebook, which immediately fell silent in her hands. While looking at the others, trying to figure out if they were about to wake up, she found the first page and lit it up with a quiet _Lumos_.

 _Meet me at the base of your tower._

Not knowing how exactly the magic worked, Millie was so provoked by his command that she picked up a quill and scribbled hurriedly.

 _You're just trying to get me into trouble!_

The answer returned almost immediately.

 _Absolutely._

He was a dark silhouette engulfed in shadows, and at first she didn't see him.

"Raven," he called softly, the Prefect badge glimmering as he stepped out into the light. Millie glared. If he was caught out of bed at this hour─he certainly hadn't lost any time in commanding the rest of her month─he would have a reason and an excuse. Prefects catching students out of bed after curfew didn't have to be from the same house.

"Riddle," she said, only now noticing the connection between their nicknames.

"Listen carefully. The groundskeeper is old. Inside his hut, he keeps a canary. I need you to get it for me."

"You can't be serious."

"He won't notice a thing."

"Riddle, I can't─"

"I suppose that depends on how badly you want this to stop, doesn't it?" He leaned in dangerously close, smirking.

"I don't have to do what you tell me!"

"Well, the less you object to my commands, the quicker this will be over."

"What's to say you don't just continue harassing me when this month is over?"

"You have my word. Unless you want it to continue─" he didn't finish the sentence, but she knew exactly what he was getting at and a cold chill extinguished her need to linger.

The commands continued after that night. She never found out what Riddle wanted the canary for, but she did hear the groundskeeper sobbing helplessly to Professor Dumbledore. Millie hated herself for carrying through with it; one day, in the mirror, she saw herself smiling like him, all teeth and no mirth. Sometimes the demands were cruel, like that night. Other times they were confusing: he would summon her and ask mere questions, sometimes about herself or others she knew. Millie felt herself more and more drawn, less and less inside her own mind and more in his. When he leaned in, smiling at her, she now felt more like that teenage girl who had refused to mention his name at sleepovers, desperately trying not to give in.

She didn't talk to Peggy anymore, she felt isolated and a little lonely.

He was her only company.

* * *

March 25

"Good girl."

She hated the thrill it gave her when he said that.

"Come here, I have something for you."

He was leaning with one hand on the back of a chair, indicating for her to sit down. Millie, per automatics, obliged. Smoothing out the high waist skirt underneath her, she sat down and looked up at him, watching as he twisted his upper body to retrieve something from the desk behind him.

"What is it?" she asked as he handed her a small, gift-wrapped box neatly tied with a green bow on top.

"Open it."

She did. Inside was a necklace, a small marble pendant hanging from the chain. Millie hated to admit it, but it was beautiful. Simple and elegant. He had good tastes.

"I─can't accept─"

He shushed her.

"Let me."

Grabbing the box, he pulled out the necklace, letting it fall from two of his fingers so she could see it in all its splendour. Then he dexterously opened the hatch and circled around her. As the pendant touched her skin, cold against her warm, beating heart, she unavoidably laid her fingertips to the chain by her collar bone and protested,

"Tom, really─"

"Ahh, Tom, is it."

Millie immediately regretted saying anything. She didn't flatter herself that this was for her sake, that he had any interest in her at all. It was another ploy, some way for her to incriminate herself and stay in his employment when the month ran out.

It had been a ghastly two weeks.

(It had been a wonderful two weeks.)

Before she left, he said as a parting comment.

"Don't take it off. Trust me. There'll be consequences."

* * *

March 28

There was a reason she was sitting in the girls' bathroom on the third floor. Myrtle had been decreed by the Ministry to stop tormenting Olive Hornby or not leave Hogwarts or something of the sort, so instead she'd taken to these cubicles and the girls' bathroom had been her kingdom ever since.

Now, it had become Millie's refuge too. Not that Myrtle was optimal company, but at least Millie could be alone.

He had been everywhere the last few days. There when she took a shortcut to the Ravenclaw tower, there when she went the long way around to Charms class, there when she purposefully got stuck in the stair. He haunted her dreams and her waking nightmares, and he always had something to say, something to demand, somewhere they could be alone.

She didn't know how much longer she could hold him at a standstill. He was tearing at her defences, and he was winning.

The door to the bathroom went up and Millie sighed inaudibly.

"Raven, come out. I know you're in there."

Millie looked down. The necklace was glowing.

Of course.

"You've been tracking me?!" She burst out the door, holding the necklace in front of her, waving it angrily.

"I told you not to take that off."

His voice was ice cold and Myrtle, who had been so chatty up until now, venturing thrilled guesses at what might be upsetting Millie, had suddenly vanished from sight.

"I am _done_ with being told!"

"Oh no, you're not. You're still mine for two more days, and if you don't put that necklace back on, it'll be an entire month longer!"

"That was not in the rules!"

"This is a war, not a game. There are no rules."

Visibly taken aback, Millie stumbled a little. "What?"

"Don't you get it yet, Raven? This is a war, a war for your soul. And I'm winning."

He started circling her like a shark and after a while, Millie got tired of craning her neck to keep tabs on him. He came back into view every time he disappeared anyway.

"I vowed I would make you obsessed with me. And I have. You have no friends left, you only have me."

Millie was filled with dread when she realised that he had been the cause of all her friendships disseminating: her resentment towards Peggy, her discussions with the others about what kinds of boys they should be liking, the word _hypocrite_ thrown around like a discus.

"But don't worry, I will pick up the pieces and I will put you back together in my image, one of my ribs and all."

He winked and it was a disturbing sight.

"You're mine for the rest of the month," he said possessively, "and if I'm not happy with the way you carry out my demands, I'll keep them coming."

He took an anticipatory breath.

"So say it."

"Say what?" she growled belligerently.

"Say _Mudblood_."

Millie stared.

"SAY IT!"

She flinched, and then, in a tiny voice, she said it.

* * *

March 31

He had left her alone for three days and she didn't know if it was a punishment or a present. Only one thing was certain with Tom Riddle: it was manipulation.

When the final command came, she met him with a feeling that she had already been beaten.

When the final stand came, she took it and lost; his lips, lingering on her mouth, tasted like mud.


	4. A Very Weasley Christmas

**Author's Note:** This is an AU. Fred is alive because I can't deal with loss, Romione never happened because I ship Hermione with Fred, Harry and Ginny split up. I fell in love with this premise, so I've decided to make it a 12-chapter thing named 12 Days of Christmas. It can be found here: s/11812994/1/12-Days-of-Christmas

* * *

On the first day of Christmas, Hermione and Harry arrived together. Hermione─who, though fond of Mrs. Weasley, was also eternally wary of her─was wearing a dark blue sweater with a gold-like _H_ sewn on it. Her hair looked big and littered with snowflakes in the grand scarf she'd wound around her neck. Harry, only wearing a winter's jacket over a t-shirt, was immediately donned a home-knitted scarf by Mrs. Weasley, earning him a pair of raised eyebrows from Hermione.

 _I told you so._

Harry shrugged.

Inside sat Luna and Ginny at the dining table, Luna braiding snowdrops and dirigible plums into Ginny's long, red hair.

"Hullo, Harry," Luna said in her melodic, far-off voice. Ginny snapped her head to the side, causing a few of the plums to slide out of her hair.

"Hey, guys!" she said with a big smile. Ginny, though she and Harry had decided to call off their relationship when she took a job offer with the Holyhead Harpies, still had a laid-back, confident way around him, and Hermione knew he was infinitely grateful for that.

"Hey, Luna," he returned, "Hey, Ginny."

"Hullo, Hermione."

"Hi, Luna," Hermione said with warmth in her voice, though she glanced at Harry hesitantly as she said it. Though Hermione had grown fond of Luna, they could still be found arguing in the late hours when Hermione was full of eggnog and a sceptical approach to Luna's theories. Hermione, afraid that she might revive an old slight, always felt moral hangovers the next day.

Luna didn't seem to give Hermione's scepticism much thought.

"Harry! Hermione!"

The stairs croaked under the weight of the youngest Weasley brother's frantic footfalls, greeting them both in one big, crushing hug. He had grown, not in height but in bulk, amassing just the slightest of weight and muscle.

They had all changed. Despite Hermione's discomfort, she and Luna had found a common pastime: writing poetry. Luna, of course, wrote about mythical creatures, about hawthorn and about what you might see when holding your hand up in front of the sun─a whole lot of nothing, Hermione would argue before Harry shushed her─while Hermione on the other hand excelled at complicated metaphors, always somehow revolving around the issue of loss and acceptance.

Harry had once heard Mrs. Weasley admit that Hermione's "poetry was well performed", which Harry knew to be high praise. Whereas Luna would perform hers with a paper in hand, sometimes dramatically looking up, her voice carrying eerily through the room, Hermione rarely performed in front of friends and family─and even Mrs. Weasley had only overheard a private session by mistake─but her words were performed with sincerity and vulnerability and completely by heart. Her voice was alternately safe and cracked, and Harry and Ron came as often as she invited them to her public performances.

They were all in the beginning of their twenties─Hermione always one year ahead─and Harry admired his friends more than ever.

"Harry, mate!" a couple of voices called as the twins followed Ron down the stairs. Halfway down, they noticed Hermione, who had been somewhat hidden behind Ron's engulfing frame, and Fred said, "And the Lady Hermione."

"Hey, 'Mione," George followed up chirpily, and they split up, hugging Harry and Hermione in turns.

Mrs. Weasley suddenly marched in from a quick trip outside; big, black wellingtons on her feet and a chicken in each hand.

"Chicken soup, again?" George said cheekily.

"Mum, really, you're not going to persuade us to drop the Fox Tongue Potion, no matter if they _do_ say you are what you eat," Fred followed up. Then the both of them began clucking and flapping their "wings", walking around the kitchen area in a squatting position.

"Oh, you two!" Mrs. Weasley snapped. When that obviously didn't work, she took out her wand, saying with determination, "You have until the count of three!"

"Oh no, she'll do us like one of her cakes!" Fred called, signalling their frenzied, clucking retreat up the stairs.

"Her cakes?" Harry asked Hermione, who shrugged, looking to Mrs. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley, however, had obviously decided to ignore the comment.

"She bought a new book," Ginny, whose hair now sat in a long, uneven braid, small hairs sticking out between the larger columns, snowdrops and dirigible plums seemingly haphazardly interspersed, nodded towards a collection of cakes over by the window, each new one in a contorted shape.

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other.

"It's written by Gilderoy Lockhart."

At this, they all exchanged surprised looks. Gilderoy Lockhart's last book had been _Who Am I?_ , his career had been a fraud and all three of them knew him to be most incompetent wizard they had ever met.

"Well, that explains the cakes I suppose," Harry said.

Ginny answered, "I suppose she's still a little in love with him," at which Hermione blushed.

"Now, Ginny, would you mind showing Harry and Hermione up to their rooms?"

"They've been here almost every summer for the past ten years, Mum, I think they know where to go." Then, to Hermione, she said, "You're with me and Luna," giving her a gentle elbow nudge in the ribs.

Hermione beamed.

On the second day of Christmas, Hermione could be found sitting in the small alcove beneath the stairs. A fully decorated Christmas tree, with already a few dozen presents beneath it, had taken place next to the fireplace, the top bending forcibly against the ceiling. Hermione was pampering a cup of tea as she sat, watching big, fluffy snowflakes glide through the air.

"Hermione," someone whispered and she looked up, seeing Fred with his left hand on the stairs, excitedly waving her over with his right.

Getting up, Hermione trotted around the coffee table and came to his side. He smelled good, like pine and fresh air, and she wondered if he (and George) had been the ones to bring in the Christmas tree.

"Look," he said, pointing out the doors to figures in the snow, silhouettes washed out against the white hue of winter, tumbling, sliding, completely incapable of standing on their own two feet. Hermione tried to hide a giggle, her body convulsing slightly and making her aware of Fred's sudden proximity. His hand still on the staircase, he was now effectively standing with an arm around her shoulder.

She looked up and noticed he wasn't looking outside.

He was looking at her.

"Fred," Hermione began wilfully and a little wearily.

Fred raised his eyebrows questioningly, to which Hermione shook her head and looked outside again. The warmth pulsating from his torso made her light-headed and she almost leaned back into his arm.

"I've got it!" suddenly sounded from above and George stormed down the stairs.

In the confusion, both Hermione and Fred straightened and the moment was lost.


	5. Trick or Treat

"Bellatrix, you can't bring that─ _thing_ ─with you upstairs," Walburga said shrilly, a look of mild horror on her face. She was sitting in her usual chair, blankets over her lap, smelling salt at hand, lines beneath her eyes.

"Of course I can, dear Aunt, it's _my_ ─ _toy._ "

They were guests and guests should be treated with respect.

"Bella likes to play with her food before she eats it," Andromeda jeered from the shadows, perfect in her neutrality.

Bellatrix hissed at her─she had always been headstrong, _self-willed_ ─making her aunt jump, then proceeded up on the next landing, past Sirius's─good riddance─bedroom and into one of the guest rooms.

Narcissa, combing her hair and admiring it, silver blonde in the mirror, widened her eyes.

" _Bella_. What are you doing?"

"Out, Cissy," Bellatrix demanded. When her sister protested, she took one quick step and Narcissa stood.

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Why not go play with yourself?"

Narcissa, blushing at this, offered no response and hurried out of the room. Bellatrix, licking her mouth, looked after her until the door was closed.

"Now," Bellatrix said and ran a finger down the cheek of the pretty girl. She had long, blonde hair like Narcissa, but less edge, less cheekbone, healthier colours. There was a disease in Bellatrix's family, she knew, one that made them all look sickly, their rooms drab and dark and _black_ , just the way she liked it─Grimmauld Place 12 was the perfect example and Bellatrix ran her hand along its floorboards lovingly─it was a camouflage, hiding them as they preyed on the filthy and tainted.

This one, too, was dirty.

Bellatrix licked her cheek.

"Bella," the toy cooed and Bellatrix felt a shiver down her spine─naughty girl─"Behave."

"I will hurt you," Bellatrix whispered into her ear and the pretty, little plaything turned her head, her lips dancing dangerously close to Bellatrix's, and said, "I know."

Outside, they heard children marching, calling and laughing and playing and _being noisy._ It was that time of year, the hallow eve; they didn't expect a real witch.

Bellatrix enjoyed changing that.

Slowly, without taking her eyes off the toy in front of her, she rose slightly, looking out of the window. One of the toddlers wore a pointed hat and carried her sweets in a cauldron. One of the streetlights flickered and sprung, sending embers cascading down.

The children screamed. Bellatrix smiled.

"Not far enough," came a quiet but scary voice from beneath her.

"Do you want to go outside and flash them a smile?"

"Wouldn't that be a treat?"

Blonde and dangerous and thrilling. Bellatrix leaned down and kissed her, lips thinning against the others' teeth, sharp and almost drawing blood.

"Ah ah ah," the coquette creature said, drawing back, "You know the deal."

"Give me what I want!" Bellatrix raged, moving in again.

"No," said the infuriating girl and Bellatrix smashed a vase her sister had put there without looking at it, without even raising her wand. The Dark Lord had taught her immense power and how to take it, and it wasn't by making deals with Mudbloods.

"Then I'll take it from you," she growled, watching the little thing's face change; her opinion of Bellatrix had been faulty at best, filled with gaps. Bellatrix began to char the hem of her dress.

"What -?!"

"Don't worry," Bellatrix said softly, "I know what I'm doing."

Leaning in, looking the little vampire straight in the face, she said, "This will only hurt a little bit."


	6. Funny Valentine

**Author's Note:** This is a Jily College AU told from Sirius's POV. Fastelavn is a Danish tradition in February when (mostly) children dress up as mostly fairytale creatures and superheroes and go door-to-door asking for money and a particular pastry, named for the holiday.

* * *

"Yup, that will be two- yes, thank you."

A couple of coins dumped into his outstretched hand, and Sirius Black quickly allowed them to fall into the designated slot, clinking. The guy in front of him had asked for a common, bottled beer, and swirling around to head for the fridge, his eyes fell on a familiar figure by the door. He lit up in a big smile and waved his hand as her eyes locked on his own, and she quickly returned the gesture.

Grabbing a beer and returning it to the unknown customer, he patted Marcus Winslow on the shoulder, saying, "I'll be right back." Then he crabbed sideways out behind the bar to bestow a short kiss on the cheek of the solitary figure who'd only just entered.

"Heey, darling," he greeted her affably, his voice like melting butter. Holding her at arm's length, he said, "You look stunning."

And so she did. Lily had the extraordinary gift of being able to tuck a t-shirt into a couple of high-waisted trousers and look elegant, so coupled with the evening's theme, she was absolutely radiating. With red hair that fell to below her waist and a short, doll-like dress in some blue hue (- girls always knew the exact word for everything, and Black had always found it convenient to let them take responsibility for keeping their own traditions -), coupled with lace (that was lace, wasn't it?), that perfectly framed her figure, she was an obvious incarnation of 'a cinnamon roll, too good for the world, too pure', or however that went. Her face was painted white, her nails black, and a bow was perched on the top of her head.

"What are you supposed to be?"

His chuckle rang loudly and abruptly as her fist pounded on his chest playfully. As she walked on to meet some of the others, he rubbed the sore skin. He'd been laughing more at the fire in her eyes; she had an incredible strength for such a small girl.

Then again, everyone was small when you were 1.93 metres tall.

"She used to kickbox, you know." Camilla Savage, the matron saint (or perhaps just the matron) of the bar stood leaned up against the bar disk, a hand on her hip and a smug smile on her face.

"Did she really?" Sirius said slowly, pretending to scour through the crowd for the girl, "And how do you know?"

Camilla shrugged, filling up a pint of lager, her curvacious body swaying slightly. Of course she didn't know, because who remembered such things? Sirius had mostly wanted her to shut up because he had no better answer.

With no one currently purchasing anything, he looked at the crowd gathered there. There were quite a few, but then again, they were the biggest campus bar in the area, and everyone loved Fastelavn. They'd decided not to follow American standards, because Halloween had begun looking more like an excuse to dress up as bedroom fantasies in their later years, so they saved dressing up for the 14th of February instead and made it a joint Fastelavn/Valentine's Day thing instead.

Well, at least that was what Camilla said. Personally, Sirius wouldn't have minded a couple of skimpy outfits, but she was the boss.

Around the place hung violet streamers. Peter had been in charge of buying decorations and Sirius had a sneaking suspicion he might have thought he'd bought pink streamers for the Valentine's Day Bar and, realising his mistake, been just too lazy to do anything about his mistake.

Luckily, he was on vacation, skiing with his family: Marcus had not looked pleased.

"Have you got the key for the storage?" a slow, almost drowsy voice came from beside him. Turning his head, Sirius smiled at Remus, the for-one-night-only Jesus-lookalike he called a friend. The two of them locked eyes and hooked arms around waist and shoulders as if on cue, giving each other a tight squeeze.

Looking down, Sirius noticed he'd taken off the sandals.

"Marlene borrowed them half an hour ago," he said, pointing to his girlfriend, who was chatting away idly at the table nearest to them. The girls from their course who actually came to the themed bars always seemed to stick together, and tonight was no exception.

It also looked like Lily hadn't gotten very far with her hello's, as she was still stuck in conversation with them. At the moment, she was leaning in casually with her hand gripping the back of one of the chairs and another hand at her hip, not unlike Camilla a couple of seconds before. One of the girls must have complimented her on the costume, because she looked down herself in an affected manner and smiled.

Her lips weren't moving, though, and Sirius felt a tug in the side of his mouth. He knew she wasn't very good at handling compliments, even if most people felt inclined to bestow them generously. Even commenting on her inability to take a compliment, she would simply shrug and change the subject.

"Can you two not go get the keg in the sto-"

"On our way!" Remus exclaimed hurriedly when Marcus decided, clearly for the second or perhaps even third time, to remind everyone else that there was work to do and that it wasn't his turn to do it. Extracting themselves from the half-embrace they'd so far been engaged in, the two guys ambled towards the storage room. The door that separated the bar from the small backroom was heavy oak painted green, made to fit the rest of the dark premises; they'd put up lamps and lanterns all over the place but to little avail.

Sirius shrugged, thinking to himself that it might be fitting, considering the theme.

"Oi, Black!" someone called from behind, and he lingered, telling Remus he'd be right in.

"Mull, what's up?" Towards him trudged a short, bespecled guy who looked like a younger version of a stereotypical father; moustache and accountant attire. Sirius Mull had a funny, slightly forward-bent way of walking when he was excited about something, and though he was almost as skinny as Sirius himself, he would walk with his arms held from his torso and his fists clenched, as if he'd just been assigned a wrestling partner.

To everyone else, they were known as Mull and Black, their matching first names making it rather confusing whenever someone decided not to.

The only one he knew to call them both Sirius was Lily.

"We've been challenged." A thumb over his shoulder indicated the football table, and Mull smirked sleepily, as if they could win it with their eyes closed. Sirius stretched his neck to see the challengers but found no one waiting there.

"By who?"

Mull's smile dissipated as if he was about to correct Sirius's grammar, but evidently thought better of it in the end.

"Wrist and Kim."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. Wrist was a pretty big guy with red hair and a mean right-turn. He wasn't certain he would be able to defend against him.

"Then I play offence?" he asked Mull, who quickly bobbed his head up and down a couple of times.

"Of course."

Searching, then, through the crowd to get a glimpse of Kim Madigan and exactly how drunk she was by now, Sirius smiled, satisfied, as he saw her stumbling over a guy she'd had a crush on for several months and spill her beer.

"Ha, fine. Give me five."

Mull nodded and turned towards the table to prepare the opponents. Meanwhile, Sirius felt something rolling up against his leg and looking down, he saw Remus pushing the keg in front of him. The blond Jesus looked up and smiled mischievously.

"If Marcus finds out..."

Remus shrugged, indicating he'd thought that far and decided to deal with the consequences. A surreptitious glance at the bar, finding it empty of Marcus, and Sirius bent down to help his friend. As they entered behind the bar, Camilla stooped over them immediately.

"That looks dangerous, guys." The smile was evident in her voice, and mock-exasperated, Sirius replied without looking up, "We could use a hand."

Together, the three of them hoisted up the keg, attached it and clapped their hands in an effort to remove the nonexistent dust of their labours from their hands. Just then, Marcus entered the bar, throwing a cursory look at the exchanged keg, and said simply, "Good."

Then he went to serve a customer, while Sirius and Remus exchanged a look.

"Hey Black, we're up."

Without needing to look, Sirius shuffled towards the table at the other end of the room. A small crowd was gathered at one of the other tables to watch an ongoing beer pong session. Catching glimpse of Marlene, he waved quickly, caught her smile and continued to look over the crowd. His girlfriend was now standing only with her best friend, Marie Mercier, and some of the other guys from their course. Lily was also an audience to the thrilling game unwrapping between Jack Fawcett and James on one end and Oliver Crowley and David Malthus on the other, but she was standing against the wall, her eyes intent on the ball.

Just as he turned away, he heard her give a cry of disappointment as the ball ended in one of the plastic cups belonging to Oliver and David, judging by the groans. He heard Marie laugh about something, and suddenly their own game was afoot.

The match was only just won, and they broke up after shaking hands, when the beer pong table exploded with motion and sound. Everyone in the backend of the room turned to see what was going on, but it was very evident that Oliver and David had just lost. Behind him, he could hear Mull's cackling and in front of him, Marlene was making her way towards him through the crowd, Marie in tow.

"Hey you," he said, admitting her into his arms. Sharing a short kiss, he looked at her big, dark doe-eyes behind the glasses and stroked her hair. The sounds from the beer pong table continued, and Sirius smiled as he looked up, saying, "I'm assuming Jack and James won?"

"Yeah," Marlene replied with a husky voice, "Lily wasn't very satisfied."

"Lily? Why, what does she care?"

"Well, you know how she always bets on the winner?" Marie chimed in from behind, stepping closer to the couple. Sirius turned Marlene to stand beside him, slinging an arm around her shoulder so they could both face Marie.

"Yeah, she's pretty good at pegging who's going to win."

"Well, this time she bet something on it – I'm not actually sure what it was?" Marie's eyebrows furrowed, turning to Marlene with a questioning look on her face.

"She promised she'd kiss him if she was wrong," Marlene said slyly, laughter bubbling on her tongue.

"Who, Jack?" Sirius said pretending not to understand, stretching his neck to try to look as if he was testing his own hypothesis. Jack was a stumped, short guy, possibly Lily's height if not shorter, with a waning hairline and such a propensity to get drunk that it had grown boring to talk of his escapades.

He couldn't really imagine Jack ask for a kiss, much less Lily give it.

"No, James," Marie said excitedly, as if she'd just delivered the news of the year, and the two girls shared a giggle.

Sirius broke off his search for Lily shortly to shoot them both a look, then returned to find her leaned up against the wall in a defensive stance, James leaning towards her with one hand on the wall beside her. They were both smiling, but for now they were just talking.

If he knew Lily right, she wouldn't be going down without a fight, and at the moment she was probably feeding him a string of cattish comments, just to punch in a last spoon of sass.

"Well," Sirius said after a while, returning to his own conversation, "It looks like he's finally getting his prize. Lily doesn't usually slink out of her own bets."

"Not like she'd want to anyway," Marlene muttered amusingly under her breath, and she and Marie locked eyes. Sirius simply pretended not to have heard. Lily wasn't exactly the kind of girl to be frilly with her reputation; in fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen her kiss anyone, and she _had_ been telling James _no_ for a few years. However, both James and she had gone through a certain transition; James had started listening, Sirius knew, to her insults, trying to figure out what she wanted, he'd come down to earth from his seven heavens. She, in turn, had started blushing, smiling instead of throwing curse words at him and, Sirius was almost certain, had done her hair up for him at least once.

She'd been driving James crazy for years with her presence.

Lily came, danced and sometimes stuck around to help clean the place. Then she went home and did God-knew-what with her time until next Friday when they would all be together again.

Usually, the people Sirius hung around with met at the university, studying in the study areas and eating lunch together. Ella Maddox, one of Lily's best friends, he knew everything about without even asking; she was so eager to talk of everything she'd seen on YouTube that week and every conversation she'd had with anyone who'd humour her enough to listen, and she was always there. They'd grown good friends, he and Ella, although she'd seemed surly of late, which annoyed him a bit.

Passive aggression didn't sit well with him. If she had a problem, she'd have to come talk to him.

As if on cue, he caught sight of her. The three of them had started down towards the bar, because he was technically still on duty, and at one of the tables stood Ella, looking over a crowd playing Cheat with both her hands on the table. As they passed, she waved excitedly at Marie, then, noticing him, less excited at him and Marlene.

Sirius gritted his teeth and didn't acknowledge her.

Jack had returned to his station in the bar as well, and letting go of Marlene, Sirius slinked back behind the bar to wrap an arm around the short, Jewish-looking fellow.

"Well, well, well. I hear you won." It was good-natured banter, and Jack was one to take it.

"Bah," the guy waved away the comment dismissively from beneath his arm. "It wasn't me, and you know that."

"Well, I hear James had some extra incitement."

Jack looked up, confused, before his facial expression molded into one of understanding.

"Oh, you mean Lily."

Sirius nodded.

"Nah, man, I think he just thought it would be fun to make the humiliation complete. I mean, not that anyone would mind Lily giving them a kiss, but still. She's been betting against him for the past three times, I think, but she's not as good as she used to. It's almost as if it's a principle to bet against him now."

Without knowing what to say, Sirius simply hummed, and the conversation died. Just in time, he might add.

"Speaking of the devil..." he nudged Jack as Lily swanned up towards the bar disk.

"Hey, love," Lily said cheerfully, and Sirius tried to assess if it was possible to see smeared make-up on her face, "A coke, please."

"What, are you still on that no-alcohol trip?!" Jack engaged belligerently.

Lily simply smiled.

"It's not a 'trip', Jack," she replied sweetly, though Sirius thought he heard an edge in her voice. At the mention of the word 'trip' she made air quotations, "You know I don't drink."

"Correction, I know you don't drink when I see it."

The red-haired girl rolled her eyes.

"Well, you know I would never lie to you, Jack," she intoned. Sirius knew that tone. It meant the conversation was over.

"Do I?" At the end of the question, Jack's voice rose an octave and he made a face as only Jack could, clearly not getting the message.

In reply, she sighed and held out the money for the coke to Sirius, who smiled and said, "Coming right up, sweetheart."

"No, but really..." he heard Jack trail off behind him as he went for the coke, but just as he returned, the music changed into El Tango de Roxanne. As he put the coke on the disk in front of Lily, he failed to let go. Her eyes met his and his eyebrows went up in a silent question.

In reply, she smiled, and soon they were on the dance floor.

Lily and he hadn't talked in the beginning. He still wasn't sure they ever really talked; periphery held them apart, but he knew that they could dance, and perhaps that had been their first language. They moved in the same circles, tangents of the same friendships, they laughed and talked over school with cursory remarks, but they never saw each other outside campus.

Brought together by circumstance, he'd say they liked each other, but he supposed he hadn't ever noticed her until they had danced.

It had been some unnameable party, one of the big-scale Friday bars with an annual theme, but he didn't know which; he just remembered that the venue had changed into the big hall further down the road from where they were now. A square space had been designated for dance floor, and as his former dance partner had left him, he'd simply grabbed the closest free hand belonging to someone he knew.

That someone had been Lily.

Sirius had never taken lessons in ballroom dancing, but he loved watching it (something very few people knew). It had been no secret, however, that however weak his technique might be, he was strong enough to lead, and that no matter what he had expected of her initially, Lily was the perfect dance partner.

He spun, and she lifted from the ground, flitting in and out of his arms as if they were created for that one purpose. Her skirts encircled her fully, and when she wasn't lodged in his grasp, she knew a few moves of her own.

People had given them the space to unfold, and since then, they'd always had at least one dance per Friday.

No one was on the dance floor now. The crowd was spread out unevenly at the tables, people who took the same courses sticking to what they knew, safer with being an audience to a game than a dance, and it suited him fine. As the first staccato notes set off, she turned her back on him, walking a few paces in front, elegantly making the most of her heels.

Enticing him, she looked over her shoulder, a smile on her face, and he pursued. Everyone knew there was nothing between them, but he supposed they were both dramatic enough to get lost in the characters of the music when it happened.

Up against a wall with a beer in her hand, he caught sight of Marlene and winked at her. She smiled, and he knew it was fine. Not that he had doubted that in the first place.

Quickly, they were swinging and tango'ing and spiralling around on the dance floor, faces turning to bestow shallow glances and interested looks, and too soon it was all over. Panting, Sirius laughed and drew her in, giving her a one-armed hug and kissing her hair.

She was smiling as he said, "Well, dance, that we can do."

"That we can do," she agreed, picking up one of her shoes that she had apparently lost in the heat of the moment and putting it on mid-step. As they walked to the bar, he, to get back to his station, she, to get her coke, they were joined by Marlene.

"When are you closing tonight, Sirius?"

OK, Marlene called him by his first name as well. The prerogative of being his girlfriend, he supposed.

In reply, he shrugged.

"Ask Marcus." A pause. "Officially, it's at ten, but you know how it goes."

Marlene nodded. They had the short bars, ending at ten, the long bars, ending at 2, and those that were extended, ending whenever Marcus felt like it.

"How does the turnover look?" Lily asked instead, the indirect way of finding out. She liked to figure it out herself, Sirius had learned. That, and she'd never particularly warmed up to Marcus.

"No idea," Sirius said, inclining his head towards Mull, "Ask Mull."

Lily followed his line of sight quickly.

"Nah, it's OK," she smiled.

He hadn't thought so.

"I think I'll go... see what happens at the football table," she began, taking slow steps backwards and pointing over her shoulder. Then, hurriedly, she patted him on the back, saying, "Come find me if they play another one of our songs, OK?"

"OK," Sirius promised, snaking an arm around the shoulder of Marlene and sneaking in behind the bar. Jack was standing bent over the computer, muttering something about too long a playlist.

"What are you looking for, Jack?"

"Elephant Love Medley."

Scrunching up his nose, Sirius tried to remember what that was.

"Is it a Queen song?"

"No, it's from Moulin Rouge."

When there was no sign of recognition, Jack straightened.

"The film that El Tango de Roxanne is also from?"

"Ahh," Sirius exhaled as if he'd suddenly remembered something he was very familiar with.

Jack shook his head and returned to the computer, running a finger down the screen.

"Yep, fifty-three songs from now."

"Sure Marcus'll let the bar run that long."

"Perhaps. You never know with Marcus."

"Never know what with me?" came a demanding voice from behind, and Sirius gave an imperceptible sigh before turning around with a bright smile on his face.

"How long you'll let the bar run, mate."

Sirius had learned that most of what others couldn't say to Marcus was tolerated from him if he only pretended to be unaware enough of how annoying it was for Marcus to hear it. Marcus was a few years older than most people at their level of education and often insisted, as chairman of the bar, to be treated with a certain amount of respect. With his sailor-inspired hat and tattoos, he'd created a reputation that he liked honoured; that of a broken soul with scars enough to keep him mysterious for the rest of his life and a seriousness that didn't leave room for questioning his authority.

Marcus was 24.

"Well, there aren't that many people left right now..."

"They'll come, you'll see," Sirius said excitedly. It probably wasn't wrong. There was ebb and flow every Friday, and depending on the original length of the party, it changed accordingly. Today was a 10pm bar, and it was only 8. Like Lily, most of the people who came to hang, did so around this time, and they'd had a steady flow for ten minutes. Still, Marcus was right. Not many people were left at present.

Marcus shrugged.

"We'll see."

As he left them to serve someone waving a note, Sirius and Jack exchanged a look.

Then they returned to watch the night unravel. Wrist, despite his size, grew incredibly drunk, enough to smash into a lamp and send it shattering all over the floor. Kim eventually got her guy, but only after having gotten him so drunk through Cheat that she herself had had to go to the toilet a couple of times. Jack had used the dustbin instead, classy as he were.

Lily and Sirius had danced again, only this time, he'd been stumbling and fumbling and dropped her on the floor once. Not as classy. He and Remus had rolled another keg into the bar, this time under Marcus's supervision. God knew how they did it. Mull insisted on continuing to play beer pong and refused to acknowledge his own defeats, instead demanding a rematch until he'd won, if only just once, so he could gloat.

They reached and passed 10pm, and at 11pm they started ushering people out, cleaning up the place. Most people were staggering by now, although Lily, as usual, was perfectly controlled. Jack made an offhand comment about hating people who didn't drink, but the truth was, they needed her help.

She wasn't actually obliged to help, because, unlike James, she was not elected a member of the bar. The two of them were the only ones who hung around to give a hand anyway, James because he had to, Lily, well, who knew why she did anything?

Even Marlene had gone home, and Sirius had promised to come around hers as quickly as possible. Someone started talking about pizza, and people shouted their preferences for filling. Some of the girls, Lily and Lola in particularly, argued (one quietly, the other obnoxiously) that they might as well go to the venue. James interjected that they could eat at his flat, which was not far from the bar.

"Oh, come on, why would you want pizza, Lily?" Jack slurred, drunk to the point of hilarity, spewing ridiculous comments wherever he went. He'd been particularly harsh on Lily that night, but she mostly just shrugged, laughed it off or gave him a snarky retort, "You don't eat meat anyway."

"No, well, olives are just so delicious. The pizza is simply an edible spoon, Jack," she replied patiently.

It was clear from the raised finger that Jack was just about to say something back, when all of a sudden, he broke into a cry of joy. The playlist had finally reached the song he'd been searching for earlier, and with arms outstretched, he jumped onto the dance floor, where someone had just sweeped away all the dirt, sullying it once more.

"All you neeeeed is LOOVE!" he screamed, off-key. Next sentence, he was joined by James, and he excitedly welcomed him onto the imagined stage.

Together, they sang the next line as well, but as the female voice protruded, James held back, clearly used to singing it as the man in the duet, and Jack was instead joined by a voice that was actually feminine and well-equipped to hit the notes. He opened his eyes curiously, and Sirius, as well as a pair of other people, looked to Lily. She looked around quickly, then apparently decided to ignore everyone.

Jack desperately tried to keep in the game, but he was too drunk to sing and too sober not to acknowledge it.

At one point, he seemed to finally give up, saying, "Oh, can't you two just kiss already?"

James and Lily kept singing without looking at each other, with Jack chiming in now and then, while they finished cleaning the place.

Sirius, finding his coat, stood in the entrance for a few minutes before waving at everyone left, shouting, "I'll see you guys tomorrow!" A couple of them shouted back, but he left before they started asking him to stay.

Marlene was waiting for him.


	7. Retrograde

[ˈɹɛtɹoʊˌgɹaɪd]

 _adjective_

1\. moving backward; having a backward motion or direction; retiring or retreating  
2\. inverse or reversed, as order.  
 _3\. Archaic_. contrary; opposed

 _verb_

 _1\. Chiefly Biology_. to decline to a worse condition; degenerate

* * *

 _You're on your own_

 _in a world you've grown_

…

 _And your friends are gone_

 _And your friends won't come_

 _So show me where you fit_

* * *

You sit at the edge of the bed. Stark, white walls, linen, sheet mix with the turquoise sterility of the blinding lights. The machinery blink and beep, a constant reminder that they are being monitored, that this is _for their own good_.

 _For the greater good_ runs like a sickness through your life. It tears and withers everything it touches and you only asked the hat for Gryffindor because you didn't know the implications, because you forgot that it was bravery that caused you sorrow, bravery and the illusory tale of greatness, of good, of something transcending your existence.

Humans, you decide with acid in your mouth, are so afraid of not being enough.

One of them grabs for you, asks again. You respond with your name, swallowing the tears and scowl on your face. You hate him for not remembering, after all this time; both of them, with their vacant stares and their screams and their distance, like planetary bodies, always orbiting, always out of reach.

Then you hate yourself for holding them responsible. They ruined your life, but that is what parents do, whether they mean to or not. Whether they have control or not.

And they don't, you notice, as your mother drops yoghurt on the floor and begins to cry.

You have a father without having a father, a mother who was never your mother. Every time you feel a connection to another man, you hold back, you worry that you're sullying the memory of a man you never knew, of a man who has no memory himself. A man who'd never recognise you, whom you only know through cautionary tales and your grandmother's tear-crinkled eyes.

He looks at you again, asks if you will help him, forgets that he asked, yells for you to retreat, to back off, where is he, where's his potted plant?

It was yours to bring, months ago, your own creation, and it died like you knew it would. There's a kind of poetic justice to him remembering the plant and still mistaking you for just another Healer.

The bile won't let go of you, the disappointment that he's still here, that they won't leave so you can be free.

Your childhood was spent with longing, always held back by the hope that they would regain consciousness enough to come back, to call your name, to give you a hug. You don't know if you would have liked them, but you would have loved them.

Legends are incorporeal; they don't tug you in at night, they don't read you your favourite bedtime story, they don't pick you up when you scrape your knee.

"Neville," your grandmother calls harshly as you get too close and your mother throws a fit.

Heritage is worth nothing when they didn't die like heroes.


	8. Much Ado

"Come now, sis, don't judge the book by its cover."

"I'm not, but if disguises himself behind a cover, I'd say he's earned every word."

Molly Prewett straightened and, with a first surprised, then satisfied smile on her face, turned around to face her brother.

Fabian, though amused, was unrelenting. He walked towards her on the green lawn before the castle.

"You hardly know him, Molebear."

"Yes, knowing him _must_ be hard, because he is a hard man to bear." Nearly returned from their Herbology lesson, the Prewett siblings stopped suddenly, coming face to face with a group of Hufflepuff students.

"Ah, Fabian," greeted the leader of the pack Cornelius Macmillan, "How was the new professor?"

"A quirky little thing, I have to admit, you see─"

"They say she looks like a Mandrake," another Hufflepuff said enthusiastically, but Fabian and Cornelius had only ears for each other.

"How like you to only speak when you're certain never to be heard, Monsieur Animosity," Molly jested, walking past him towards the castle with her nose in the sky.

"And yet, you'll have to have heard me, since you talk back. Am I that important to you that you listen when no one else will?"

That made Molly turn around.

"I only listen because your voice grates on my nerves," she shot back vehemently.

Around them, snow began to float through the air.

"Ah yes, you and your poor nerves; they have been my good friends for quite some time."

"At least I have a nerve," she returned.

"Yes, you do have some nerve." Amos Diggory's voice had cooled somewhat. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have more important matters, like Professor Mandrake."

Later that evening, the feast of All Hallow's Eve took place in the Great Hall. Students and professors alike came disguised as monsters and fables. Professor Kettleburn sported a lovely black cape with purple linings in a somewhat creative interpretation of the Muggle story of Count Dracula; especially considering he could not open the cape completely, thanks to his number of missing limbs.

After the feast, the tables disappeared and room was made for a dance.

Molly, dressed like a harpy, felt almost drunk on attention by the end of the night. She was sitting at one of the smaller tables, near the armchairs, with a group of friends, and someone was asking her about Amos Diggory.

"Some would say he's a lover, not a fighter," the masked fool said.

"Psh, yes, some lover who only professes love to himself!" she spat back while looking around eagerly, earning herself both smiles and a few laughs.

"Tell me more about this Amos Diggory─I have only heard tales of his great accomplishments."

"And tales, I'm afraid they will stay, because not a true story is there to tell about his accomplishments. There are sadly none to speak of."

It was then that Molly was swooped away by Gideon. She stumbled to her legs in all her feminine grace, impulse making her reckless and social interaction making her head spin.

"You tell Amos Diggory if you meet him," she said, spinning around in her brother's arms, "that unless he fights for what he loves, he will never be a lover worth mentioning."

She thankfully missed the part where a surly Amos Diggory took off his mask to look after her with a bitter drag at the corner of his mouth.

The morning after, they had double Potions with the Hufflepuffs, and to Molly's great dismay, a late Amos Diggory had no choice of seats but the one next to hers. She, still reeling from the gathering the night before, greeted him cheerfully. He, in return, gave her a short, acid reply, which shocked her into silence.

Throughout the lesson ( - Draught of Whatitsface; Molly couldn't concentrate, only slightly noticing the still alive fish, wiggling in her hands before she dropped it into the cauldron, and the moonstone, which she later found she had completely forgotten the use for - ) Molly and Amos sat next to each other, she with a careful attitude, and he with an offstandish one.

Molly went to the Great Hall for lunch, confused.

As she trudged the long way up the stairs to the Common Room, she was briefly surpassed by her brothers, who were whispering and giggling. Curious, Molly decided to follow them.

"It's true, he has fallen completely head over heels with her."

Fabian looked back shortly on Molly, who quickly pretended to not have heard what they were saying.

"Apparently, he's so enamoured with her that he can't bear to speak a word to her."

"No," Gideon said in an affected tone.

"It's true. Apparently, they didn't speak a word all through Potions class. He's lovesick."

Molly's heart began to beat faster, and it was for climbing the stairs. Could they be talking about─? No, it couldn't be.

Hanging back a little, she gave her brothers some space, hoping they would feel free to mention the names of the people they were talking about.

"So lovesick, even, that he won't tell her how he feels," Fabian concluded.

"Why not?"

"Well, you know our Molly. He's afraid he would have his head bitten off. It's true that she's all bark and no bite, but she did apparently confess she would rather hear a dog bark than a boy tell her he loved her."

"And is she the dog, then?"

"What do I know?" shrugged Fabian, "All I know is he seems to think so."

"Well, it is true that she has a temper." Gideon seemed to be laughing, which made Molly ashamed. She longed to make people laugh with her good-natured mockery of a witty tempest, but not like this.

"Yes, it's probably best that Amos says nothing."

Molly gasped, earning her a couple of quick glances from her brothers, who had now arrived at The Fat Lady and started talking about the password instead. Watching them enter, Molly stood for a second with her back against the wall, looking into the air dreamily.

"Are you going in or out, then?" The Fat Lady huffed, causing Molly to hurry through the portrait hole.

Inside she found her friend, Alice Abbott, crying.

"Alice, what's the matter?" she said, sitting down beside her distressed friend.

"It's Dorian."

Dorian Meadowes was Alice's boyfriend.

"He said he saw me kissing Amycus Carrow and that Cornelius Macmillan will back him up!"

Drawing back in horror, Molly felt her temper rise.

"What utter unicorn turd! When did they say this happened?!"

"Last night."

"But you were in the dormitory with me last night!" she exclaimed, righteous anger coursing through her veins.

"I tried to tell him it wasn't true, but he wouldn't believe me."

"Don't worry," Molly said, "I'll set him straight."

.ooo.

On her way down to the Hufflepuff Common Room, Molly bumped into someone. Confused and slightly unbalanced, she mumbled a quick _Sorry_ before losing her balance. Thankfully, a strong hand saved her.

"Need some help?"

Looking up into Amos Diggory's smiling face, Molly felt almost appeased, but it didn't take her long to remember her mission.

"Let me through."

"Why, what's going on?" he asked, concerned.

"It's Dorian─he's accused Alice of not being faithful! I'm here to knock some sense into him."

"Yes, I heard," Amos said quietly, "but you can't come into the Hufflepuff Common Room."

"Why not? Don't you love me?" The words left her mouth before she had a chance to think over the plausibility of hearsay, but her agitation took precedence, and she didn't shy away from her own proclamation.

"Why, do you love me?" he asked, surprised.

"N-no," Molly stammered after a small pause, "no more than reason."

Amos, in return, smiled.

"Then I will love you with reason."

Leaning forward to kiss her, however, she slipped out of his grasp. "I will not kiss you until you fetch Dorian."

"In that case, what choice do I have but to obey?"

A minute later, he exited the barrel with Dorian, a frown upon his face.

"What do you want, Molly? I'm not in the mood."

"Dorian Meadowes, you ungrateful, uncritical, near-sighted, sad excuse for a buffoon! Did it even occur to you to ask Alice's dormmates where she'd been last night?! Because, if you had, I could have told you easily that she wasn't in the castle!"

"Wh-what?" he stammered. Behind him, Amos looked on, an amused smile upon his face.

"Well, technically, she was in the dormitory, I suppose. But we may have taken a short trip to the roof."

"So… it wasn't her?"

Molly shook her head. "I don't know what you saw last night, but it wasn't Alice."

"Great!"

"Not so fast," Molly said, placing a hand on his chest as he stormed forward, presumably towards the Gryffindor Common Room.

"I don't think she wants to see you right now."

"Why not? I know now that she wasn't unfaithful!"

"Yeah," Molly said angrily, "but you also assumed she was lying to you when she told you she wasn't. You didn't give her a chance. I think she deserves some time to think about if that's the kind of person she wants to be with."

After a few protests, Molly sent Dorian back into his common room, sulking, and turned on her heel. However, before she could get very far, someone grabbed her arm.

"You always fight. Isn't it about time you let someone rescue you for a change?"

"I fight because unless you fight for what you love, you'll never be someone worth mentioning."

"Yes, a harpy once told me that."

"Besides," Molly added, "nobody gets to rescue me but me."


End file.
